


Tricks & Treats

by wordsbymeganmichael



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Halloween, Too much backstory, emma has feelings!, henry and alice are friends!, killian makes a kick-ass dad!, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 15:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael
Summary: This will be Alice Jones’ first Halloween since moving to Storybrooke from England, and spending time with Henry Swan is the only positive she can see in joining the Storybrooke Elementary tradition of trick-or-treating together, but the only way she will go is if he father, retired soccer player Killian Jones, agrees to come with her. Because Killian will do anything for his daughter, he finds himself at Henry Swan’s front door dressed in his old pirate costume—but the blonde witch that he meets makes up for any embarrassment he may have felt. Will the Jones family’s first Halloween in Storybrooke be filled with tricks, or treats?





	Tricks & Treats

“ _Please_ , papa,” she pleads, sitting in front of him on the floor as he brushes her hair. “I told Henry that I would go with him, but I’m scared. What if I do it wrong? The girls in the class already don’t like me, and this would just give them a reason to be meaner.”

Killian can’t help but let out the small laugh that fills his chest with Alice’s statement. “Listen, starfish, I know you’re nervous, but I’m fairly sure that there’s not a  _wrong_ way to trick-or-treat.”

* * *

 

“Well, if there is, surely I would be the one to learn it the hard way!”

“Alice, darling, all you need to do is to ask your friend Henry. After everything you have told me about him, I feel confident that he will give you any assistance you may need, and will probably even do so before we leave his house.”

“But what if he doesn’t?! What if he just—just  _assumes_ that I know what I’m doing, doesn’t even stop to think that I’ve never done this before, and then I’ll embarrass myself in front of him!  _Oh!_ , I wouldn’t be able to get over that! I would never be able to leave the house ever again!”

“You should never be too embarrassed to ask for help, especially from a boy as charming and understanding as this Henry of yours.”

She whips her head around to face him, almost taking the hairbrush with her, and when her bright blue eyes meet his, they are filled with excitement, adventure and… something else that Killian cannot  _quite_ place.

“You should just come with me, papa! I know you still have that pirate costume that you would wear with the team for Halloween visits. I’ve seen it in your closet! You could just put on your costume, and come with me to Henry’s, make sure I don’t make a complete fool of myself, and then—and then I’ll have a reason not to go to Gina’s Halloween party!”

“I thought you already told Henry that you would go with him to the party?”

But Alice ignores his question, her words already flying from her at a mile a minute. “Who holds a party every Halloween, anyway? And why does it have to be the mayor’s daughter? The mayor’s daughter, who she named after herself, by the way! And what do they do when Halloween isn’t on a Friday? When it’s on a school night? Or a Sunday night? Because everyone knows they’re the worst nights to stay up late since nobody ever wants to get up on Monday, after being able to sleep in the two days beforehand.” She pushes herself up off the floor, straightens out the white apron tied over her light blue dress, and begins pacing in front of him. “And, yes, I did already tell Henry that I would go with him to this party, but that doesn’t mean I have to! I  _am_ only ten years old, so I shouldn’t be expected to keep every promise I make, but I know that it would be so much better if you came with me! At least to Henry’s, and to the first few houses until I get the hang of what it is I’m supposed to do!” She turns to him to see him smiling up at her from his position on the floor, and huffs, a frown taking over her very expressive face. “Come on, papa! I don’t see how this is funny.”

If he was completely honest with himself, Killian would agree that he, too, does not know why it’s funny. Because, of course, his daughter is the most important thing in his life, and damned if he wouldn’t do anything for her.

Even if that means pulling the pirate costume out of the back of his closet, reliving the days when he and the rest of the team would don these ridiculous outfits and visit the children’s hospital.

Back when he was part of something, part of a team.

Back when he was a whole man.

Back before the accident.

In place of his prosthetic hand, he slides the hook over the stump of his left arm, a gift, half-joke, half-serious, from his best friend and starting forward, Will Scarlett, perhaps the only player on the team that was more of a star than he was. Running his fingers over the cool metal, he can almost hear Will’s voice as he opened the package: “Now Captain Jones can be Captain Hook!” Will thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever said, but the rest of the team didn’t quite agree, though Killian couldn’t help but laugh.

That was the day he decided to retire, especially making his rounds and trying to play other positions, obviously no longer able to be the goalie he has spent his career working to be. After Liam was injured on his deployment, then losing his Milah in the same accident that took his hand, the team was the only thing keeping him in England. The very next day, he and Alice sat down and made a list of the things they want from their next adventure, their next home.

That was the first leg of the journey that started two years ago and led them to Storybrooke, Maine.

Seeing him standing in front of the mirror, completely costumed from head to hook, Alice lets out a squeal of delight. “Papa, look at you! You even found the hook from Uncle Will!”

Repressing the memories that the costume brought up, he turns around her and smiles. “You like it, starfish?”

“Of course I do, papa!” she squeals again, wrapping her arms around his waist, proving to him that every moment he spends in this outfit tonight is completely worth it.

“Are you sure this is the house, love?” Killian asks, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He has no idea why he is as nervous as he seems to be, but he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, hear it in his ears.

“This is where Henry told me he lived,” she says, her voice small from the passenger seat next to him, and when he turns to face her, he watches as he wrings her hands in her lap. “But it—it doesn’t look like anyone’s home…”

Killian had seen his daughter upset before—because of course he had, she’s ten years old and gets upset. But this is a whole new level of upset to him, skipping straight over crying right to shaking, seeing himself in her more and more. Because he, too, is fuming, angry that anyone would have the audacity to treat his Alice like this. From the rest of the stories she had told him about this Henry, he seemed like a nice, polite boy—but anyone that pulls a stunt like this, letting her get excited just to let her down, is neither nice nor polite.

“Alice, dear,” he starts, definitely not looking forward to breaking her heart, but before he can continue, they hear the door to the house across the street slam shut, followed by the voice of a young boy screaming Alice’s name.

“Henry!” Alice almost does not get the word out before she is out of the car, rushing across the street to where the young boy in a knight’s costume meets her, wrapping his arms around her in a soft hug.

“Thank the Lord,” Killian breathes, shutting off his engine before climbing out of the Chevelle.

“Papa, papa, meet Henry!”

He looks exactly like Killian thought a ten-year-old named Henry should look, with dark eyes and a mop of dark brown hair and cheeks just chubby enough to still be classified as cute.

“Henry, my boy! How nice to finally meet you. You know, lad, I’ve heard so much about you through my Alice.”

“It really is nice to meet you, too, Mr. Jones.”

“Henry!” He hears her voice from the porch, and it is the first time he really takes in just how extremely decked out the house is, like Christmas turned orange. Orange lights line the porch, the roof, the windows, with lit-up Jack-o-lanterns lining the walkway and the wooden porch. But the kicker, the real central piece of the whole ensemble is a large, blow-up vampire Mickey Mouse, centered in the front yard.

But as soon as she pushes through the large wooden door out onto the porch, Killian’s attention is no longer on the decorations. She is, without a doubt, and without any nods to the cliche, the most beautiful woman Killian had ever seen, even dressed as a witch, with a knee-length black dress, black-and-white striped tights, and even the pointed witch hat. The lights from the porch, both the regular and the string of bright orange ones, accentuate the curls falling over her shoulders, brighten every contour of her perfect face.

“Henry, please get out of the middle of the street!” she calls again, crossing her arms over her chest, and then realizes that, though her ten-year-old is in the middle of the street, he is not alone, and Killian corrals them back onto the decor-covered lawn, then makes his own way to the porch.

“Sorry, love,” he says, his voice soft, and he is thankful for the cover of darkness, for he feels the heat rising to the tips of his ears. “You know how ten-year-olds love to play in the street.”

When she smiles at him, illuminated by the harsh lights of the porch and the holiday, he can swear he feels his heart stop beating, even if only for a moment or two.

“Well, of course. They wouldn’t be children if they played anywhere else.”

When he is almost face-to-face with her, standing on the sidewalk while she is on the step, he feels her eyes really take him in, head-to-toe; but Killian Jones is nothing if not a gentleman, and as much as he wants to let the urge to do the same to her, his eyes stay locked on her face, even when momentarily covered by the brim of her witch’s hat.

“You must be Alice’s dad,” she says finally, her eyes meeting his again, eyes that sparkle the brightest emerald green he has ever seen, even in the orange lights of Halloween. “Mister Jones?”

“Please, love, call me Killian. You’re Henry’s mother, then? Ms. Swan?”

“If you’re going to call me anything, then call me Emma, because I am  _not_ your love.”

This time, when the heat rises to his cheeks, he hopes the orange lights of the porch cover for him, though somehow he feels it does not.

“Of course, Miss Swan. I meant no harm.”

The smile she flashes him this time is less authentic than the first one, and he wishes more than anything that he had not offended her so quickly, starting off on the wrong foot. “Of course not.”

He is dumbfounded, unsure of what to say next in hopes of never, ever, insulting her again, and the silence in the conversation is heading towards awkward before it is perfectly saved by the curious ten-year-olds, specifically Henry.

“Mr. Jones!” he yells excitedly, running up to him through the yard, though his movement is slightly awkward, weighed down by the plastic armour of his costume. “Your costume is so cool! You look like a real pirate!”

“Well, thank you, lad. It better look bloody real, with all the money I spent on it.”

“Did you buy it just for tonight?”

“No, no, I bought it in England, when the team and I used to visit the children’s hospital for Halloween. I’m assuming Alice has told you what I did in England?”

“Goalie on the Chelsea team! That’s so cool!” Even with his excitement, taking in the detail on Killian’s costume, the stitching in the leather and embroidery on the vest, Killian doesn’t miss when his eyes stop on the hook for more than a few moments, and the soft intrigue in his eyes when they meet his again. “But what about your hook? She told me about—about your hand, but is the hook where you put the fake one? And how did it happen?”

Killian opens his mouth to speak, ready to tell the same story he used to tell the children at the hospital, and at the games, when they asked him the very same question, but Emma beats him to it, yelling out to her son before Killian can even begin.

“Henry David Swan! You do not ask people questions like that! Apologize to him, right now!”

He wants to correct her, assure her that Henry asking him is far from a problem for him, but he has already gone too far once; he does not want to add to it by going back on her yelling at her son. So, instead, he waits for Henry’s apology, given softly from a truly embarrassed ten-year-old, before turning around to Emma and offering her a soft smile.

“I appreciate your apology, lad, but you’re definitely not the first young man to ask me about my injury.” He leans down, finding himself on his level. “However, it is only to the most polite of boys that I tell the real story of what happened, because there’s a not-so-noble knight involved, and I don’t very much like reliving the tale unless they’re asked very, very nicely.”

Henry’s eyes go wide, a smile growing to take over his face, and he almost begins jumping up and down when he pleads, “Please, Mr. Jones! Please, please, please!”

Killian stands up again, searching for Emma out of the corner of his eye, and he is pleased to find that the scowl on her face has grown to the beginnings of a smile as he starts the story that he has not told since he moved to America..

“About two years ago when I was playing in England, I got into this argument with a gentleman after one of the games.  And I thought we had settled the whole thing—looking back, I don’t even remember what the argument was about, that’s how trivial the whole thing was—until one day, he showed up to my practice dressed all in armour, very much like yours, except his was made of metal, of course. He approaches me on the sidelines and draws a very,  _very_ large sword. Now, thankfully, I decided to also bring my sword with me to practice that day, or else he may have ended up taking more than just my hand from me. He approaches me on the field, stops the entire practice to do so, and challenges me to a fight, a move which is rather unfair, given I’m in my football uniform and not a full suit of armour like he is, but little does he know that I am actually a talented and practiced swordsman. So we spar, a process that begins to take over the whole field. He advances on me, I parry back and take the lead again, over and over, back and forth, for what feels like hours. And then, of all things, I wind up right on top of the ball and it catches under feet, and I fall over it, right to the ground. I think,  _oh no, this is going to be the end!_ I hold up my sword, trying to block the blow I know he is going to deliver, but the bugger misses my sword and hits me straight on the wrist, cuts it clean off! I thought he was going to take the final blow, take his revenge on whatever argument we had a few days before, but apparently taking my appendage from me is enough for him, because he sheaths his sword and walks right off the field, like nothing ever happened!”

Killian’s recalled this story to children of all ages in the two years since he found himself without a hand, but he is almost entirely sure that no child has ever reacted as strongly to it as Henry Swan does, eyes wide, tossing his toy sword aside as if it was poisoning his hand, or like it would make Killian relive the terror of losing his hand to an (albeit imaginary) sword fight.

No one speaks, not even Alice, who has heard his rendering at least a dozen times. She is smiling at Henry, as humored by his response as Killian is. Finally, it is Emma who breaks the awestruck silence of the yard.

“Well, kids, you better start soon if you want to get to all the houses before you have to be at the Mills house!”

Killian turns to Alice, still smiling at Henry. “She has a point, starfish. We should get ready to go.”

“ _We_?” Henry asks, turning to Killian, obviously confused, and Alice sets her hand on Killian’s arm.

It is at this moment that Killian realizes the other emotion hidden in Alice’s eyes as they got ready to go: mischief.

“Actually, papa, I changed my mind. Henry and I can go together, and you can stay here with Miss Emma!”

Shaking his head at his daughter, far too smart to only be ten years old, he sighs deeply, letting out a short laugh. “Whatever you want, starfish.”

“Great! I’ll see you later, papa!” she says quickly, wrapping her arms around him in a brief hug before turning on her heel and practically running in the opposite direction, her arm linked with Henry’s.

Killian watches her walk away for as long as he can before she turns to head down the block and out of his sight. When his only distraction is finally out of his sight, he turns his eyes back to Emma, looking up at her through his eyelashes for just a moment as his hand shoots up to scratch the spot behind his right ear, and lets out a long, deep breath, trying to take as much time as he can before he has to speak to her.

“Well,” he says slowly, awkwardly, hitting his fist against the side of his leg. “If she—if she doesn’t want me to go with her anymore, I can… I guess I’ll just head home.”

His eyes find hers for another moment, quickly trying to find a reason to stay even though he just excused himself. They hold for a moment, neither of them daring to move even a muscle, but she breaks first as a slow, soft smile makes its way across her face.

“Alice is just going to come back here with Henry when she’s done, so if you want to—if you want to stay, help me hand out candy and drink beer by the fire, I, uh,” Her eyes meet his again, and her smile grows when he returns it. “I wouldn’t mind.”

His right hand scratches behind his ear again, pulling at the hair there that has gotten a little long. “Are you sure?”

She takes a step back, onto the porch, and opens the front door, gesturing for him to go inside before her. “Definitely.”

The inside of the house is just as decorated as the outside, and he wants to be surprised, but he finds that he’s not. The house is just as silent as the conversation between him and Emma, so he uses this as the opening thought, hoping it blossoms into more.

“So, Miss Swan, you must really enjoy Halloween then?” he asks with a chuckle, and when she turns around to face him, her face riddled with confusion, he gestures around him, to all of the Halloween decorations.

“Oh,” she says, smiling back at him through a particularly low purple spider web hanging down from a doorway. "This is my brother’s house, actually, and his wife.”

“So then your brother is the Halloween aficionado?”

“His wife. Mary Margaret, the kindergarten teacher. She’s a little….” her voice trails off, trying to find the right word.

“Eccentric?” Killian asks, smiling at her while she pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge, handing one to him.

She returns his smile. “Yeah, eccentric is a good word for it, actually. You think Halloween is a big deal, you should come back for Christmas.”

“Of course, love, I can imagine,” he comments, following her through a door that leads into the garage. Though it smells like it usually houses an old car, its normal occupant is gone, replaced instead with a… Killian’s brain even takes a moment to find the right word for it.

 _Halloween wonderland._ The phrase he decides on is Halloween wonderland.

“I’m not your love,” she says again, this time more under her breath, and it completely ruins whatever rapport they have going on between them. He has to pay more attention to that.

If he thought the front yard was overkill, the garage has died twice over. The matte gray walls all covered— _covered—_ floor to ceiling with orange, white, and purple spider webs, embellished with fake plastic spiders, bats, and pumpkins. The back wall has ghost silhouettes hiding within the webs, the wall farthest from the door lined with witches, plus a table covered with a dozen real, candlelit Jack o-lanterns. But, in the center of the room, lies the real focal point of the decor, almost enough to take anyone’s focus from the rest of the garage: a shining golden cauldron, at least five feet tall, with a solid bottom half and a grate around the top, plus a door to let users into the inside of it.

Or, Killian thinks, the most extreme overkill of a cauldron he has ever had the pleasure to lay his eyes on. As he fills the space between himself and it, Emma opens the garage door, letting in the cold air of the October evening, revealing to Killian just how warm the garage has become. She turns to him in just enough time to watch him stretch his hand out toward the cauldron as he realizes why the garage is so warm: the cauldron is a fire ring—one which already was a small but heat-emitting fire churning in the bottom of it.

“I wouldn’t -” she starts, but he is already pulling his hand away, and when he turns to her with wide blazing blue eyes, she can’t help but let out a soft chuckle.

“ _Bloody hell_ ,” he mumbles, taking a step back to really take in what he is seeing before him.

“I told you, Jones, my sister-in-law  _really_ likes decorations.”

Nodding, his eyes are still wide and fixed on the cauldron. “I, uh… yes, I see that.” He lets out a breath, then takes a few sips of his beer, cringing as it before finally taking his eyes off the fire ring again.

“Help me with these chairs?” she asks, and when he turns to her, she is gesturing towards a pair of wooden rocking chairs, which were against the garage door and blended in before.

“Of course, love,” he answers, immediately damning himself for the use of the endearment. “I’ll lend you a hand.” He means nothing of the unintended pun, but as he lifts the arm of the chair with his hook, they both realize what he said and simultaneously let out a quick laugh. "Just one, though,” he adds, smiling across the chair at her. “That’s all I have to offer.”

“How often does that pun come up in real life?” she asks as they pick up the other chair, and when they set it back down, he runs his fingers through his hair.

“Surprisingly not as often as you may think. Or if it does, maybe I just miss the pun on a regular basis.”

Usually, he’s embarrassed by any mention of his deformity, because that’s all that it has become to him. But this exchange is the nicest conversation he’s ever had about it, and with the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on _—_ not to mention the nicest conversation that’s passed between the two of them since their children practically tackled each other in the middle of the street.

Sitting down next to him beside the fire, she smiles up at him again, her gaze passing through her eyelashes and the thick, warm air coming off from the fire, now that the wind from the street is pushing it their way. Which is what makes him realize…

“How is there no smoke?”

Her eyebrows knit together for a moment as she realizes just what his question is pertaining to, since his piercing blue gaze has not left hers since they took their seats. Together, they turn their attention towards the behemoth before them, and Emma looks at it as if it is the first time she has ever contemplated the question.

“I really…” she says finally, slowly, but then stops for a moment before continuing, pulling her bottom lip up under her teeth. “I really have no idea, to be completely honest.”

“Maybe it’s a trick then? A magic cauldron, if you will. That is what Halloween is all about then, is it not, love? Tricks and treats?”

Even though there is not even a drop of humor in his voice, when she turns back to him, he has the biggest, doofiest grin spread across his face, one that reaches up into the creases around his bright blue eyes.

He realizes that he’s done it again, called her love for the second time without any backlash from her.

That has to mean  _something_.

When she smiles back at him, shaking her head in response to his joke, he really hopes it does, because the more genuine the smile on her face grows, the more strikingly beautiful she becomes. Usually, he can blame this problem on the rum, because the only time he runs into women as beautiful as Emma Swan are the few times his friends cross the ocean to visit him and he can drink somewhere other than the solace of his own basement.

But tonight, there is no rum. Only whatever  _godawful_ beer she handed him out of her brother’s fridge.

If there’s one thing that Killian Jones does not enjoy, it’s beer, especially whatever the hell passes as it here in America. But because he is nothing if not a gentleman, he drinks it without a second thought, if only because she handed it to him.

 _He can’t be attracted to Emma Swan_. It is at this moment, with her smiling at him, rocking slowly next to him, somehow even more beautiful than the moment before, that he hears this from somewhere in the back of his mind.

And he realizes, as much as he seems to want to be attracted to her, he’s right. Alice has only just become friends with her son _—_ _the only damned friend she’s made so far here—_ and Killian would be beside himself if he did anything to compromise his daughter’s happiness, even if it means compromising his own.

 _Tone it back_ , he warns himself,  _before you do something you’re really going to regret._

But he doesn’t have to—a handful of young kids do it for him:

“Trick or treat!” Their first collection of visitors approaches them, running up the driveway and into the garage. Emma smiles at them for a moment, not poising herself to move, even as all their little eyes stare up at her, and it is not until Killian elbows her arm that she reacts.

“Shit, right,” she whispers, jumping up and running into the house, and he hopes he is the only one who heard her. Moments later, she returns with the large bowl of candy he remembers seeing inside the front door, plus the small table that it was sitting on. The five little kids—an astronaut, a dinosaur, two princesses, and a hot dog—rush up to her as soon as she sets down the table, causing her to take a quick step back with her hands in the air.

As they attack the bowl of candy—“Just two please,” she adds as one of them tries to shove a second fistful of candy into their little plastic jack-o-lantern—she walks around him, still sitting by the fire cauldron, and grabs a sign from under the pumpkin table, which she reveals to be a perfect handwritten bi-fold that reads “HELP YOURSELF! Only two each, please! Happy Halloween!” in three different fonts.

“Your handiwork, Swan?” he asks, chuckling at her as the children begin to walk away.

“Oh, god, no,” she says with a smile. “I could never make anything like that. That’s all Mary Margaret’s handiwork.”

“The kindergarten teacher, right?”

She nods, half-smiling at him. “Right.”

A silence passes between them again, and looking over at her, he feels like he’s going to tell her everything— _everything_ —from Alice’s mother to Milah to the accident.

And, as soon as she asks the question she does, he bloody well just might: “So, what happened in England that made you move, if you don’t mind me asking?”

For some reason, he finds that he does not mind her asking, even a little bit, though his hand flies up to his ear to scratch the spot behind his ear. “Has your boy told you anything about what I did when I was there?”

She raises an eyebrow at him, shaking her head. “I didn’t even know he knew.”

“Oh, he knows. He’s a football fan, right?”

“Henry’s always been more into soccer, actually,” she replies, but when Killian laughs, she turns to him, her face brightening. “Right,” she says, accentuating the  _t_ at the end of the word, and he nods, smiling. After a moment, her eyes go wide, putting the pieces of their conversation together. “Wait, you were a professional soccer player?”

“Aye, love, that I was. And a bloody good one at that. ‘Best goalie in the league,’ some of the papers called me. Until…” he holds up the hook, releases the straps holding it on to reveal the stump hiding under the leather.

“An accident,” she says pointedly, reaching out and setting her hand on his arm again.

His eyes fly up to hers, and he is surprised to find them on his face and not on what is left of his arm, the part of him that people tend to not look away from when he reveals it to them.

“How did you know there was an accident?”

“Well, most people don’t purposefully lose their hands when their entire career depends on them.”

The corner of his mouth flicks up in a momentary smile. “That’s true, I suppose. But yes, there was an accident. It was—my brother was injured on his deployment and they wouldn’t tell me anything, and I got really emotional about it, drank much more than I ever should have and started to drive me and my girlfriend home when we were hit by a truck. It hit her side of the car, flipped twice and landed in a ditch. I was bruised and battered, a concussion, a few broken ribs, and a missing hand. But Milah… she didn’t make it. They said she probably died before the car even stopped moving. It was a miracle that I was alive, but there were parts of me that weren’t. I tried to recover, tried to get back into the game, into normal, everyday life, but I was too broken.”

“Was she Alice’s mother?”

His eyes flicker towards her again, but only for a moment. “No, no. Alice’s mother was… She decided to give her up for adoption after she was born, and we were no longer together by that point anyway, so I applied for sole custody and they granted it to me. Besides Milah, it’s always just been me and Alice. She has no memory of the woman who gave birth to her.”

“Oh, Killian,” she whispers, and he realizes that her hand has not left his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

At this moment, as kids are wont to do, an even larger group of teenagers, come up the driveway, searching for candy. “Trick or treat!” they yell, entirely less enthusiastic than the first crowd.

“Happy Halloween!” Emma says back, and Killian waves at them as they reach into the bowl for their candy. Even though there are at least ten of them, Killian does not fail to notice when only three of them say thank you.

 _Teenagers_ , he thinks, knowing the sentiment is less than fair, but then her question brings him back to the conversation they were having before they were interrupted.

“Then how did you end up here, in the middle of nowhere in Maine?”

Finally, he smiles, recalling how it happened. “I had enough saved up to take care of us for the rest of my life, so we really could go wherever we wanted. Alice said she always wanted to see America. So we bought a map and hung it on the wall, and we each closed our eyes and threw a dart at it. Mine landed in Montana, and hers landed here. I secretly didn’t want to go to Montana, so I told her we would play rock-paper-scissors for it, and she always—always—picks rock, so I picked scissors, and we started packing the next day and moved to Maine.”

“Do you regret it?”

He scoffs. “Regret it? Regret moving away from the pain and suffering and failure that I left in London? Regret moving to a town with the same population as the apartment complex Alice and I lived in? I don’t regret a single moment of it.”

She smiles at him. A soft, warm thing, the realest emotion she’s revealed to him since he got there.

“Trick or treat!” Three young girls, all dressed as Disney princesses, come up towards the house—and, unlike all of the teenagers, all three yell “thank you”’s into the garage before heading back down the driveway.

“Well, I for one am glad that you’ve found yourself here in the middle of nowhere,” she says once they are gone, voice soft, and as he practically feels his heart pound out of his chest, so loud that he’s pretty sure she can hear it, he realizes it’s too late.

He’s already started to fall for Emma Swan.

“As am I, love. But, you know, since my Alice and I have moved here at the beginning of the summer, she has only ever come home to me with stories about the other girls her age, about how mean they are to her because she’s different, and as much as we needed this new life here after…” He swallows quickly, washing it down with a mouthful of beer as he holds up his hook, still in his hand. “After everything, we almost went back. Because I would do that for my girl. I would do anything for her.

“When she came home from her first day of school, and I was ready for the worst. Ready for her to beg to move back to England. And then she burst through that door, and she had the biggest smile on her face. I thought I was going to melt, I was so happy for her. And do you know what she told me?”

Though his eyes have been set on a spot in the concrete in front of him, hers have not moved from him since he started talking, watching him intently, holding on to every word, but when he asks this question, pauses for a moment, her only response is a smile.

She knows.

“She told me that she has a new best friend. He—he stood up for her in front of the other mean girls and now they’re going to be friends forever. And that boy, he’s your boy.” As an emphasis of the  _your_ , he turns the bottom of the bottle in her direction, smiles at her again, and then takes another quick sip, finishing the bottle and setting it on the floor beside him, then setting the hook down next to it, rubbing the scars it was covering. “I’m thankful for that every day, because I’ve been the bullied kid, and I never want my Alice to have to go through that. So I don’t know what you did to that boy, but you did it well.”

Parents are a different kind of proud when it comes to their kid, a different kind of happy when they hear them complimented, especially so highly as Killian just did—and this is something that automatically reveals itself to be true to him when she smiles at him again, this one different than the others she’s flashed so far that night.

“Thank you, that really means a lot,” she continues. “I’ve always—I’ve always been a little worried about him, to be honest. His father was sort of a deadbeat, and I was always scared that he would end up like him. That’s why we moved back here when I learned I was having him, so that he would have someone like my brother to look up to instead of his father. At least David puts criminals in jail and has never wound up there himself.”

Killian is taken aback by her confession, though he supposes that’s what they’re doing now: confessing.

“Well, then, your brother must be a man of honor to have helped raise such a charming and kind boy. What does your brother do?”

“Oh, he’s the sheriff. Sheriff Nolan? Have you met him since you moved here?’

Killian lets out a breathy chuckle. “No, Swan, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the  _sheriff_.” He emphasizes the last word, raising his eyebrows in the process, and it’s not until then that Emma realizes the tone of his words.

She touches him again, this time resting her hand on his lower arm, and the heat that surges through his body when she  _laughs_ is enough to power the whole neighborhood.

“Come on, Killian, you know that’s not what I meant!” she says, then laughs again, her face reddening enough to be noticeable in the weird Halloween light.

He may have stopped breathing. She called him  _Killian_. She called him Killian and touched his arm.

Killian was in love before, once.  _Twice,_ maybe. But he has never before felt like this, all tied up and giddy and unable to put his words in the right order.

“David’s involved with a lot more around the town than just being the sheriff, so I was thinking—he’s not just in the police station, you know, so you’ve probably—you’ve probably seen him around town since you moved in and haven’t even realized it. I didn’t—of course, I didn’t mean… I would never think…” Her words trail off, and she takes a large mouthful of beer to fill the silence that Killian tries to desperately to keep, but fails. It is only a few moments before he bursts, erupting with laughter, and he is thankful when he hears her voice join his, the perfect harmony of them laughing together filling the garage.

It might just be the most beautiful sound he has ever seen, and he was a professional soccer player. A  _damn_ good one.

Their laughter dies down, stopped every moment or so while they meet each other’s eyes, and then it is gone.

Emma finishes her beer, smiling at him over the bottle before pushing herself up off the chair. “Do you want another? Or, I think I’ll switch to something stronger, I can’t stand this stuff, if you’re down for that.”

Killian has never been more thankful for a statement before.

Or, at least, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t.

He smiles at her, standing up and taking the bottle off the ground next to him.

“I would love something stronger. I’ve never been particularly taken by beer, and that was in England.”

Smiling, she takes the bottle from him, the tips of his fingers brushing against his hand for just a moment. “You could have said something, you know?”

“I always opt to remain a gentleman. When a woman hands you a bottle of beer, you drink it, whether you want to or not.”

“You know that makes absolutely no sense, right? What if you don’t know her? Do you just take bottles from random strangers in bars? Because that can’t be safe.”

He shrugs, the corner of his lips pulling up into a momentary smile. “Aye, it was never a rule I very much agreed with, and I’ve since rectified it to not include strange women. But you, love, are far from strange.”

“Am I now? What if the crap David leaves in his fridge is the worst beer you’ve ever tasted?”

“I still finished the bottle, didn’t I?”

Her eyes go wide, a smile spreading across her face, and she holds up the bottles in her hands. “Well, since this was the  _worst beer you’ve ever tasted_ , what can I get for you? Given David actually has some.”

“Rum, if you have it, love. If not…” He runs the edge of his fingernail against the side of his tooth, then smiles at her. “If not, I’ll take literally anything other than this terrible beer.”

She barks out a laugh before closing the door behind her.

_Bloody hell, Killian, what have you gotten yourself into?_

Another group of kids, about Alice and Henry’s age, walks up the driveway “Trick or treat!”-ing at him, and he waves his hand towards them as they follow the directions on the sign, each carefully picking out two pieces of candy each before retreating.

 _Heartbreak_ , he thinks to himself, and his gaze falls down to his forearm, currently hidden by the leather of the costume jacket, but he knows it’s there: the tattoo he got in her honor, the woman he was with for almost three years, whose death he was responsible for. It was a heart with a dagger in it, her name on a ribbon in front of it.

It does not take long for her to return, brandishing a glass in each hand, and the one she hands to him has a more than generous serving of rum in it; when he takes a sip of it, it burns his throat perfectly, and he smiles.

“Heartbreak is a funny thing, love. But sometimes, it’s a blessing.”

“You’re happy I got my heart broken?”

“If it can be broken it means it still works.”

* * *

 

Alice stares up at it, and it’s almost as if it stares back, the castle—well, mansion, looming down at her from the end of the street. The Mills house, home to the mayor and her family, and the very place that she is dreading going. Gina Mills, daughter of Regina Mills—because yes, of course, the mayor named her only daughter after  _herself_ —has been nothing but rude to Alice since the first day of school, and now her house is the very place Alice needs to go in order to go to this party.

“Are you sure we have to, Henry?” she asks, and when he turns to her, he sees just how wide her eyes are, still focused up at the house. She snaps her head towards Henry, and he can see the sheer terror in her face.

He does the one thing he can think of that makes him feel better when he is scared: he reaches out and takes her hand in his. “I promise you, it will be fine, Alice. We’re going together, and I won’t let them be mean to you.”

At his words, she smiles and squeezes his hand, then releases it as she sees the three girls walking towards them: Gina, dressed in an elaborate princess gown, her long, dark hair piled on top of her head under a tiara; her best friend Ashley, in a glittering black dress and a witch’s hat; and her stepsister, Margot, in a green tunic and brown tights, a bow slung over her shoulder and a quiver of arrows hanging at her hip.

“Well, well, well, look who it is!” Gina taunts, walking towards them. “The new girl and the little Swan boy.”

“Shut up, Gina,” Henry says, his voice hard, but he is smaller than them, looking up at the three girls, and all they do is laugh at them.

Well, Gina and Ashley do, but Alice realizes that Margot, standing behind them, has her arms crossed over her chest and is very much  _not_ laughing with them. In fact, she even looks upset by what Gina is saying.

“What are you even supposed to be, Swan? A squire?”

Henry knows that arguing is worthless and can stop his words, but he can’t stop the flood of warmth that takes over his cheeks, thankful for the darkness in the street.

She turns her glare towards Alice. “And you, a little orphan girl?”

But unlike Henry, Alice stands her ground. “Actually, I’m Alice, from  _Alice in Wonderland_. You would know that if you ever read a book.”

For just a moment, Gina’s mouth is gaping, unsure of how to respond when she is the one being barraged with the insults. She knits her eyebrows, putting together a response, but before she can, Margot pushes past her and Ashley, flashing Alice a warm smile.

“ _Alice in Wonderland_ is one of my favorite books! My dad used to read it to me all the time, when he wasn’t reading  _Robin Hood._ ”

Finally, Alice smiles, shifting her eyes towards Gina for just a moment before Margot links her arm through Alice’s, starting to lead her towards their house. Alice reaches her hand out and takes Henry’s, dragging him along behind them towards the house, a smile slowly stretching across her face.

“Your house is beautiful, Margot,” Alice tells her when she opens the front door for them. “It reminds me—reminds me of the place me and my papa used to stay when he was on the off-season.”

“Thanks, Alice,” she says, leading them to a table in the kitchen covered in snacks and candy and drinks. While she and Henry take a few items each, then fill their punch cups with the blood-red juice Regina whipped up for the party, Margot just stands behind them, her arms crossed over her chest, thumb toying with the string on her costume bow, watching Gina and Ashley walk slowly throughout the room, whispering to each other, no doubt making fun of all the kids she invited to her own party.

With snacks and punch in hand, the three of them move through the kitchen to one of the small tables Regina set up in place of their large dining room table.

Alice and Henry eat their snacks in silence for a very awkward minute, sharing questioning eye contact while Margot’s gaze is locked across the room. After this awkward minute, though, Margot is the one who speaks up.

“Hey, look, I’m—I’m really sorry about the way Gina has been treating you.  _Both_ of you. She can be a royal brat sometimes, but she—not that there’s a good excuse for it, but she’s not usually like that.”

Alice smiles across the table at her new friend, then back at Henry.

“I hate seeing her treat you that way, and I don’t know why it’s taken so long for me to stop her. Hopefully she’ll back off a little bit now that she knows I’m on your side.”

“Thank you,” Alice says softly, and Henry just nods in agreement. “I really appreciate that, especially after everything she’s done to me since I moved here from England.”

Now it’s Margot’s turn to smile at Alice. “Now, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. My dad is from England, too. From up north, near Manchester. I went over there once a few years ago, before he married Regina, and I remember it was the most beautiful green I have ever seen.”

“Papa and I lived in London, but he was actually born in Ireland. That’s where we went on the off-season, a little southern coastal town. But it really is beautiful. Almost as beautiful as it is here, in Maine.”

“How did you get from England to Maine?” Henry asks, and Margot nods, wondering the same question.

“Well, my papa, he… he got in a car accident and his girlfriend, Milah, died, and he lost his hand, so he couldn’t be a goalie anymore, and we decided that it was time to try something new.”

“But how did you decide on  _Maine_?” Now it’s Margot’s turn to ask the question.

Alice smiles, pulling the memory to the forefront, standing in front of the map tacked to the wall and throwing darts, finding somewhere to make their new home, and she relays the memories to her friends—then, how she hoped that she wouldn’t have to move to Montana, where her father’s dart landed, and how her whole life depended on a game of rock-paper-scissors, one which she won. “And so we moved to Maine.”

“Well, Alice, I know I’m glad that you did,” Margot comments with a smile, one that both Alice and Henry duplicate.

But before either of them can reply, their conversation is stopped by a rugged, sandy-haired man who comes up behind Margot and sets her hand on her shoulder.

“Margot, sweets, Regina needs your help with something.” Then he smiles at her before turning towards Alice and Henry, and through his accent, so similar to her own father’s, makes Alice guess that he is Margot’s father. “But first, who are your friends? Well, I know Henry, of course, how are you young man?” He asks, holding out his hand for Henry to shake it, which he does.

“Hello, Mr. Locksley,” Henry replies curtly, smiling softly.

“I’m Alice Jones,” Alice says, holding her own hand towards the man, flashing her own smile. “I’m –”

“Killian Jones’ daughter, of course.” His blue eyes light up with excitement, which only makes Alice’s smile grow. “Sweets, go help Regina, please,” he tells his daughter, his voice just above a mumble, then takes her seat when she stands up. “I’m a big fan of your father, you know?” he asks, leaning towards her with his forearms on the table. “He was the best of the best in his prime. You should be proud of him.”

“I definitely am, sir.”

Robin smiles across the table at her, then leans in closer. “Do you think—do you think you could introduce me to him?”

“Of course I can, whenever you’d like.”

“Thank you, love,” he says softly, almost as if he is overwhelmed by the fact that he has the opportunity to  _meet Killian Jones_ , before pushing himself away from the table to stand up. “I’ll let you two continue to party. Happy halloween!”

They both respond with curt, awkward “Happy Halloween”s, then give the awkward tension at the table a moment to dissipate before Henry states what’s on his mind:

“I wonder how our parents are doing.”

Alice leans towards him across the table, her smile as wide as she can make it. “Hopefully falling in love. That’s why I convinced him to come, you know? So he would have to spend time with your mother. He’s been so sad, so alone, since we moved, and he doesn’t think I know, but I know.”

“Alice! You tricked him!” Henry sounds astonished, but he can’t stop the smile that spreads across his face.

“Well, it is Halloween. Isn’t that what this is all about? Tricks and treats?”

* * *

 

“It’s almost 9:00, where do you think they are?” Killian asks, his eyes falling to his cell phone sitting in the cupholder of the chair, and as much as she laughs at his worry— _“They’re ten years old at a party down the street, Jones,”_ —she also understands him. His daughter is new to the town, has never been to a party with these kids before, even one with lots of other parents, and, to top it all off, some of the kids have been less than decent to his little girl.

She watches as he takes another sip of his rum, pausing for just a moment before touching his lips to the glass, and he takes the rest of the liquid in one mouthful.

Somehow, by the volition of one of them or the other, their chairs have moved closer together, now more next to each other instead of facing one another, close enough that Emma’s hand can reach his with her arm still on the headrest.

“I’m sure they’re fine, and will be home soon.” Her voice is soft, matching the soft feel of her thumb on the back of his hand. She can’t quite understand what it is, can’t describe the pull that she feels towards the man sitting with her in her brother’s garage—not just a man, but her son’s friend’s father. It would be completely and totally wrong to be attracted to Alice’s father.

_But then why can’t she stop touching him?_

This is the question she is mulling over, taking a slow, pointed sip of her drink, when Henry and Alice finally come walking back up the driveway.

Killian, in all his endearing (and, Emma can’t help thinking,  _absolutely sexy_ ) dad protection, lets out a sigh of relief, jumping out of his seat and wrapping his arms around his daughter.

"Oh, Starfish, was so worried about you,” he says, pressing his lips to the girl’s forehead.

She takes a step back, and the way her eyebrow raises to her forehead is a trait she inherited straight from her father. “Why?”

Henry smiles gently at his mother, then turns his attention towards the Joneses. “I told you I would take care of her, Mr. Jones,” he says, and when Killian turns to him, the edge of his lips turns up in the beginnings of a smile.

"Aye, lad, that you did. But no matter who promised to take care of my Alice, I will always still worry about her.”

“Well, papa, Henry did stand up for me. and so did our new friend Margot.”

Even standing next to her, Killian does not miss the look that covers Emma’s face, or the tone in her voice when she asks, “Margot? Like, Margot Locksley, Regina’s stepdaughter?”

Both of the children nod but its Henry that speaks. “Yeah, her! Gina was making fun of our costumes, and she jumped right in and told her to leave us alone.”

Before Henry can say anything else, Alice jumps in, a flash of excitement taking over her face. “And she talked to us for the rest of the night! Plus, I got to meet her dad, and he’s from Manchester and is a really big fan of yours and wants to meet you!”

Killian smiles sweetly at his daughter, but still can’t keep the blush from rising up his cheeks, his hand flying to his ear to scratch behind it—the Killian Jones sign of embarrassment, as Emma is slowly beginning to learn.  

“I look forward to meeting him, then,” he mumbles, his voice just as embarrassed as he looks, and Emma can tell that he is not quite sure what to do next, so she jumps in.

"Why don’t the two of you go in and watch a movie or something? No need to call it a night quite yet.” As subtly as she can, she turns her eyes up towards him with the last words, hoping he heard everything she was trying to say with them: that maybe she wasn’t quite ready to call it a night yet, either.

Alice looks up to her father, as if making sure he agreed with Emma’s suggestion, and he smiles down at her, pressing his hand to the top of her head. “Aye, Starfish, we won’t be too long.”

Both Alice and Henry seem to accept this as a reasonable answer, sharing a quick glance between them before turning to the door that leads back into the house.

When it closes behind them, Killian turns back to Emma, the small amount of space between them suddenly becoming incredibly apparent, but neither of them dare move a muscle, lest they burst the bubble and break the spell brewing between them.

The fire has died down to a smolder, both of them too distracted by their conversation and the amounts of alcohol they had allowed themselves that night—more than either of them had intended, but not enough to hinder their memories or feelings.

(Though, if Killian were being honest with himself, perhaps enough to make him uncomfortable with the idea of driving home with Alice in the car. But he could wait to cross that bridge until he got there.)

With the half-dead fire as their main source of light, he has to rely on the lights strung on the walls to read her face—though it is quite a lot easier given the small amount of space between them. Looking down at her, he wags his eyebrows, a smile peeking its way across his face. “Admit it, Swan. You just weren’t ready to be done with my company just yet.”

She doesn’t know what calls her to do it, if it is his joking attitude, his incredibly calm demeanor, the realness of their conversation as the night has gone on, or perhaps just the damn glint in his bright blue eyes reflecting the orange light of the smoldering fire; but no matter what the reason for it is, when she pulls his face to hers, her hand wrapped around the back of his neck and his hand finding its way to her hip, she knows that it does somehow feel incredibly  _right_. Something about the warmth of his lips pressed against her own, the hardness of his chest through all that damn leather, and the sweet taste of rum and Halloween candy on his tongue as it slides against hers is  _perfect_.

So perfect that she doesn’t even notice the group of people walking up the driveway towards them until the knowing sound of Mary Margaret clearing her throat causes Emma to push herself away from him, using her hand still pressed against his chest as leverage—as if putting a few feet of space between them would change the fact that her brother, his wife, and the mayor’s husband just found her making out with an incredibly good-looking, leather-clad British man in her brother’s garage.

“Hello, Emma,” Mary Margaret says. trying to keep a straight face, though the glare plastered on David’s is just about as straight as it gets. Her eyes turn towards Killian, trying to take him all in without making it incredibly noticeable, and she reaches her hand out towards him, reaching over her son’s stroller. “And you must be Mr. Jones, Alice’s father?”

Emma can tell that he is trying to seem calm, but she recognizes the same reddening in the tips of his ears from the few other times he has become embarrassed. “Yes, that’s correct,” he replies, his voice doing its best to stay flat.

“I thought so,” Mary Margaret says, her collected demeanor unfaltering. “I’m Mary Margaret, Emma’s sister in law.” Smiling, she reaches her arm out and takes David’s hand, pulling him to stand next to her. The glare covering his face has not wavered. “And this is David, my husband. Emma’s brother.”

This time, Killian is the one to reach out his hand, but when David takes it, he does not return Killian’s smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sheriff Nolan.”

“Good,” David grumbles, and Emma notices the white of her brothers knuckles as he shakes Killian’s hand, squeezing as hard as he can. “You know who I am.”

Emma recognizes the tone of his voice—it’s the same one he uses when he is trying to intimidate someone into confessing. But if Killian is intimidated, then he does an incredible job hiding it, unlike his embarrassment. “Of course, Emma has told me much about the two of you. This is a lovely house, so eloquently decorated. And who is this charming little mate?” he asks, leaning down towards Neal, asleep in his stroller.  

It’s with these words, pointed so specifically at Mary Margaret, that Emma remembers just what Killian Jones made his career in, and suddenly the way he seems to already have her sister-in-law under his thumb makes complete sense: captain of a professional soccer— _football—_ team, a position that put him in front of a lot of cameras, and next to a lot of women. Of course he can rope Mary Margaret in so quickly—it’s just a part of who he is.

And the smile that spreads across Mary Margaret’s face proves that he has succeeded at his quest. “This is our son Neal. He’s almost a year old.”

“Excuse me, uh, Mr. Jones?” Robin pushes his way past David to stand next to Mary Margaret, holding out his own hand towards Killian. “I’m Robin. Locksley. Robin Locksley. And may I just say, I am a huge fan, even as a man from Manchester.”

“Please, Robin,” Killian says, taking his hand in his own. “Our daughters are friends now, you can at least call me Killian.”

Emma can swear that she can physically see the excitement spread over Robin’s face at this comment. “Well, Mr. Jones—uh, Killian—you’re right about that. I just wanted to come and introduce myself.”

"I’m glad you did, Robin. Maybe one day soon we can grab a pint and talk about home, eh?”

At this, Robin actually blushes from embarrassment. “I would like that a lot. I, uh, have to get home and help Regina and the girls straighten up, but it really was a pleasure to meet you. I’ll see you around.”

“Yes, definitely, we will get together”

If it was possible for Robin to blush any harder, he may have, but he was at least at a loss for words when he turned back down the driveway to return home.

When he is out of earshot, Emma slaps Killian in the chest with the back of her hand, her eyes wide.

“What?” he asks, grabbing her wrist with his hand as a knee-jerk reaction, and Emma is almost entirely sure that she immediately would have started making out with him again if they didn’t have an audience.

But they do. So she doesn’t.

Instead, she answers his question. “You didn’t have to embarrass the poor guy!”

“Me, embarrass him? He was acting like I’m some sort of celebrity!”

“You  _are_ , Killian.”

“Wait, you are?” Mary Margaret asks, but they both ignore her question.

“No, Emma, I  _used_ to be.”

"You did?” Mary Margaret interjects again, and again they ignore her.

“I don’t want to be that guy here, the guy that ruined his career, had a mental breakdown, and moved as far away as he could.“

"No matter what happened, Killian, the guy obviously still sees you as the star, and not as anything that has happened since then.”

She has filled the space between them again completely, resting the palms of her hands against his chest. Hearing her words, he reaches up to cover her hand with his own, leaning towards her to rest his forehead against hers, a movement that somehow feels completely normal to both of them.

After a moment, he releases his breath. “Aye, love, I guess you’re right. It’s just still a little odd for me.”

Neither of them say anything, and the garage is silent for a moment before David speaks up. “Alright, someone’s gotta tell me what’s going on here, because this is my garage and I have a right to know.”

They break apart again, being made aware of their company, but this time is less violent than the last, their hands still clasped together between them.

“David, this is Killian Jones, retired soccer—”

“Football, love,” Killian corrects, but she silences him with a glare and continues.

“ _Football_ goalie, ” She says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Newest resident of Storybrooke, Maine, and father to Henry’s friend Alice.”

For once, David actually looks impressed. Mary Margaret, however, does not. When David turns his gaze down to his wife, he sees this, and immediately claps his hand on Killian’s shoulder.

“Let’s go inside and find ourselves something to drink, shall we?” he asks, but doesn’t give Killian a chance to reply before pulling him beside him into the house. As if he can tell that his father just left, baby Neal wakes up in his stroller and starts to cry.

When the door closes behind them, Emma turns to the brown-eyed glare that she knows is waiting for her.

“What?”

Mary Margaret huffs loudly, her lips pressed together to form a thin line, before leaning down to pull her fussing baby out of the stroller. “You  _know_ what, Emma. Dating another parent? Someone Henry is actually friends with? We both know this isn’t a good idea. Is that why you kept it from us?”

“Kept it?” she starts to ask, but realizes that at least that’s a little better than just meeting him tonight and kissing him in their garage. So she changes her angle. “We’re still trying to figure it out ourselves,” she says, a statement not too far from the truth.

And then, she realizes that is  _exactly_ what she wants—she wants to figure it out with him, wants to find a way to be in a relationship with him in a way that isn’t weird for their kids. Because, yes, she may have just met him tonight, and yes, his daughter is friends with her son—but neither of those things had to keep them apart.

She could date Killian Jones without it being weird.

_Couldn’t she?_

“A professional athlete, right here in my town, huh ?” David asks, handing him another god awful beer out of the fridge—but he had been lucky enough to only have to have choked his way through one the whole night, and all the rum his had since then at least helps it go down a little smoother.

There is a weird sense of pride in his voice, as if something he did made Killian join their ranks, but he just smiles, taking a sip out of the bottle.

“Yes, my Alice and I decided it was time for a change after my career was over, and this was where fate brought us.”

“What ended your career?”

At first, Killian is thrown off by the question— _isn’t it obvious?_ —but when he turns to David and sees the sincerity behind his eyes, he realizes that he had just not put the pieces together yet.

Killian holds up the stump of his arm, the tip of it just visible under the edge of the jacket sleeve. “Car accident,” he says, steadying his voice, and he watches as David tries to hide the flash of surprise that crosses his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice soft, and presses the beer bottle to his lips for a moment before taking a slow sip.

“I’m not,” Killian says, the confession surprising him—it was a thought he’d allowed himself to have before, but not one that had ever been put into words, especially not to a man he had just met. “I mean, of course I’m sorry it happened because I took the life of someone else, someone I cared about deeply, and I will never not be sorry that my actions led to that. But I’m not sorry about where it has brought me, about the changes I have enacted in my life because of it.”

The two of them are silent for a moment, the only noise in the house carrying over from the first Harry Potter movie playing in the living room. And then David bursts the bubble, changing the subject and breaking the silence all at once:

“How long have you been seeing my sister?”

The question itself is simple.

Answering the question, however, is not.

Killian assumes that Emma doesn’t usually kiss complete strangers in her brother’s garage on Halloween, and he doesn’t want to make whatever is brewing between them seem fickle.

Because, he realizes, he doesn’t want it to be fickle. He wants to be with her, wants to at least have the opportunity to try before they have to label anything

He wants exactly what he came to America searching for: he wants a normal life, surrounded by normal people, and to be in a normal relationship, where nothing is expected of him except to be himself.

And, more than all of that, he wants to know if he can find it through— _with—_ Emma Swan.

“So that’s why we haven’t told you. Haven’t told anyone.” The lie rolls easily off her tongue, but the fact that she so desperately wants it to be true makes fashioning it all the easier.

She just hopes Killian is somehow attempting the same thing inside with her brother.

“We want to keep it quiet, to keep things simple, until we figure out just what it is we have between us. We both have kids, and we understand how difficult it might be for them if it doesn’t work out, so they don’t—they don’t even know about it, actually. Not yet, at least.”

Finally, Mary Margaret smiles at her, shifting baby Neal onto her other hip. “You seem to have given this more thought than I was giving you credit for,” she says, and Emma realizes just how right she is. For most of the night, Emma was subconsciously trying to piece together how she could have a relationship with Killian Jones without ruining the friendship that has flourished since he stepped into her brother’s yard—though, she imagines, neither of them were thinking about  _friendship_.

She definitely was not.

But there was still the problem that she revealed to Mary Margaret: trying to be with him, to start from where they were interrupted before and see what happens, without letting it affect the friendship their  _children_ were forming. Or, even without letting them know that there was a relationship forming in the first place. Emma doesn’t keep much from Henry, and from what she gathered, she assumed Killian and Alice have a similar relationship.

Though, of course, you can’t practice hiding a relationship from your son if you never have one in the first place.

“We just need  _time_ ,” Emma says finally, the words forming a sigh. She expects nothing from them; she is saying them more as a reminder for herself than anything else.

So she definitely doesn’t expect Mary Margaret to reach out and place her hand on her arm, drawing her gaze back to her sister-in-law’s, and say, “Then  _take it._  David and I will keep Henry and Alice tonight, as long as Mr. Jones is okay with it. They may even already be asleep on the couch. Go home, take him home, and  _talk_. Try to figure things out.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, suddenly worried that maybe Killian doesn’t want the same thing she does, but even through her worry, a smile still spreads itself across her face. “Don’t you need to talk to David or something? I don’t just want to throw two sugar-high ten-year-olds at you guys and run.”

But before Mary Margaret can respond, the door from the house opens again, and David leads Killian through it. Emma can’t help but smile at the bottles of beer in Killian’s hand, the very poison they had turned away from almost three hours ago—but,  _always a gentleman_ , he must have accepted some again.

And brought her one. Great.

“Good news, Snow!” David announces, using the nickname he has called her since college. “We’re having a sleepover tonight! Us, the baby, and two ten-year-olds!”

Eyes wide, Emma and Mary Margaret turn towards each other, bewildered smiles set on each of their faces. Killian fills the space between them, handing her one of the bottles of beer in his hand before wrapping his arm around her waist, the coolness of his beer bottle against her hip.

When neither of the women respond, David looks worried, and Killian leans away from her enough to take in her expression, trying to find the same signs of worry she looks for in him.

“Is there a problem with that?” David asks, and Mary Margaret takes the few steps to stand beside him, taking the glass of water she assumed was for her out of his hand with a smile.

“No, actually, it’s just—that was the same conclusion we came to out here and it threw me off for a moment, is all.”

With Mary Margaret’s words, Killian smiles down at Emma, his worry melting away.

“We should go tell the kids, then,” Emma says, starting her second bottle of  _the worst beer he has ever tasted_ , a knowing smile on her lips. Because not only does she want to give him a chance, but apparently the world agrees.

Her house is decidedly less decorated than her brother’s. A few jack-o-lanterns on the porch, a purple glass pumpkin sitting in a tray of fake leaves on the dining room table. Thankfully, there is not a spider’s web anywhere to be seen. Killian’s not sure that he could have the conversation that needs to be had in a room filled with fake spider webs and skulls.

And he  _really_ needs to be able to have this conversation.

She wants to have it, too. He can tell. After they have both changed out of their costumes, she into leggings and a tee shirt and he into jeans and a button-down that he keeps in his car, there is something in the pointed way she gathers all the dishes in the living room and puts them in the sink that speaks nervousness to him, something in the slow energy she dedicates to pouring them both drinks out of her own liquor cabinet—a rather hefty Captain, neat, for him, and an even heftier Knob Creek with a single ice cube for her—that tells him that something in her is trying to repress the conversation as much as she can.

But, once the dishes are cleaned up, the kitchen table wiped off, the blanket that was sitting on the couch folded, and they both have drinks in their hands, she sits down in the center of the couch, since he has opted for the armchair for himself, there is nothing else she can do to avoid it.

“What the hell are we thinking, Killian?” she asks, the glint in her eye somehow telling him that she wants to down the rest of her whiskey in a single gulp, but she does not.

Her question surprises him, even with all of the animosity she has already shown towards the subject. “What?”

“Our kids are  _friends_. This whole thing could tear them apart. If we decide to go for this, and it comes back to bite us in the ass, then we have no one but ourselves to blame. But we won’t be the only people getting hurt.”

“But what if it works?”

“Now, come on, Killian,” she starts, but he doesn’t let her continue.

“You’re looking at this whole thing so negatively, but what if you didn’t? What if we go for this, and it works? And we give our kids a  _family_?”

“Henry  _has_ a family. He has me, he has David and Mary Margaret and Neal.”

“You and I both know that’s not what I meant, Emma.”

She does not respond to this, instead taking another pointed sip of her whiskey. He watches the rise and fall of her chest as she takes slow breaths, her eyes avoiding him by being drawn to the coffee table in front of them.

Now it is his turn to hit her with a question, just like she did to start this conversation: “Do you want this as much as I do?” He pushes himself off the chair and moves to take a seat beside her on the couch. His next words are slower, each of them chosen very carefully, but they reveal nothing but the truth. “Because the only thing I have thought about since I saw you open that door is how much I want to be with you.”

“Come on, Killian,” she says again, but this time, he does not stop her. “That just makes this even more crazy. Don’t give me this ‘love-at-first-sight’  _bullshit_ , because we both know that’s exactly what it is. There are so many reasons we shouldn’t do this.”

“Then tell me them.”

Although this is far from the most insane thing he has asked, she reacts as if it is. Leaning forward to set her glass down on the coffee table, she stands up to leave him on the couch, pacing through the room in front of him. “I’ve already told you my main concern. Everything I have done since Henry came into my life has been for him. Every decision I have made, I made because I thought it would be best for him. There’s a reason his father doesn’t even know he exists, and that same reason is why I’ve refused to date anyone.”

“Ah,” he responds, taking another sip of his rum while waiting for her to turn her eyes to him.

“What?”

“This isn’t  _really_ about Henry then, is it?”

“What? What the  _fuck_ is that even supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have to hide from it, Emma. It’s a perfectly reasonable fear, given all that you have been put through. This isn’t about Henry, it’s about Henry’s father.”

Emma opens her mouth, poised to say something, but stops before any words come up, snapping her jaw shut. Killian just watches her emotions as they pass across her face, from stunned to angry to worried to upset.

“Don’t I have the right to worry about that, though?”

“Of course you do, love. All I’m saying is that you don’t have to anymore.”

“It’s not like that, Killian. You can’t just waltz into my life and tell me that I can forget everything that Neal did to me. He was a criminal, he tried to send me to jail for his own crimes. I lost everything because of him, crumbled into nothing when he left, and it’s taken me years to build myself back up to the point where I can be okay.”

Killian places his glass on the table next to Emma’s, then stands up and runs his fingers through his hair. “Wait, wait… Henry’s father’s name was Neal?”

She whips around to face him, confused. “ _That’s_ your question?”

“That’s your nephew’s name.”

“Correct,” she says, a shadow of a smile passing over her face now that she understands his question.

“Does that mean that you never told your brother his name?”

“Also correct.”

“So, the fact that their son has the same name as the scum that impregnated you and left you is completely unknown to them?”

“Pure irony.”

He sits down on the couch again, running his fingers over the scars at the end of his blunted arm, a movement he has found himself doing without realizing it since the accident. “That’s just bloody brilliant,” he says under his breath, but Emma chuckles lightly.

She paces back and forth a few more times in front of the coffee table, then sighs as she takes her seat next to him again. Leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, she grabs both of the glasses off of the coffee table, handing him his, but continues to lean forward. He doesn’t push her any further, lets them lie in the soft silence that has settled between them for a few moments.

Until she sits back, setting her hand on his knee, her face close enough to his to take in every contour of his expression as he tries to read hers. “How did it work with you and her?” She moves her hand to his, reaching across his to thread her fingers through his, and then points to the tattoo on his forearm, visible now that he has changed out of the costume and rolled up the sleeves on his long-sleeved shirt. “Milah?”

“What do you mean, love?”

“What was her relationship with Alice when the two of you were together?”

“Honestly, most of the time we were together, Alice was with her nanny in Ireland while I was playing in London, and the first two years, I wasn’t comfortable enough bringing her home to such an impressionable child. Alice was too young to come with me, and we had been together for a while by the time I decided we had a steady enough foundation for her to come to Ireland with me.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t have that pleasure,” she whispers, taking a long sip of her whiskey, and he mirrors her action with his own glass.

“Emma, I—I know that you may have your doubts, but I have never been drawn to someone the way I have continually found myself drawn to you since I first laid eyes on you. So what if we just… jump in? I’m willing to be in this for the long run.”

She turns her face towards his again, closing some of the space between them as she tries not to focus on the way his tongue runs over his bottom lip while he waits for her to answer. “You’re nothing if not a damn charmer, Killian Jones.”

She lets him fill the space between them—it was  _his_ turn to kiss  _her_ anyway—and he does.

This kiss is less rushed than their first one, soft and slow and perfect as their lips brush together, and this time when his tongue brushes over her bottom lip, it is less  _demanding_ and more  _asking._ Her hand finds the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck, her other pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat; his is threaded through her hair, though his stump remains at his side.

Emma has noticed the way he avoids using it, avoids touching her with it, as if she is somehow disgusted by it, so when she slides her hand across his chest to wrap her fingers around his wrist, feeling the scars, he tries to pull it away as a reaction—one that she will not let him follow through with. When they do finally pull apart from each other, she opens her eyes first, foreheads pressed together, and he leans in to press his nose against hers as he opens his bright blue eyes, blazing with emotion.

When his gaze falls down to what is left of his left arm, hers follows, letting him hold it up between them. “Emma, love, you don’t have to –”

“No, I do. Because if you’re going to be with me and all of the ghosts that Neal left in my past, then I’m here with you and yours. This is part of you, what happened to you is part of you, and it’s a part of you that I am going to love along with everything else.”

“Ghosts and all?” His voice is soft, almost trembling, as if he is sure that her answer is going to be no. But she takes his arm in her hand again, kissing the skin just above his scars, then his cheek, then his lips.

“ _Everything_ , Killian. What was it you said to me earlier? You’re in it –”

“ _For the long haul,”_ they say together before he pulls her in for another kiss.

* * *

 

##  _**One year later:** _

Emma stands in front of the mirror in her bedroom, she can’t help but press her hand against her stomach, feeling the soft black fabric of her favorite dress beneath it. Killian had insisted that they go out to dinner for their anniversary, even though all she wanted to do was sit in David’s garage and hand out Halloween candy; so they settled for a compromise, going out to dinner the night before instead of on  _actual_ Halloween. Since it was out of their way, he took Alice and Henry to David and Mary Margaret’s while she finished getting ready, since Emma had just put her house up on the market after spending most of the past year at Killian’s anyway. It was bigger, had two extra bedrooms, and the dock in the backyard was a commodity he wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. Applying a last layer of lipstick, she hears him pull up in front of the house, then when he closes the car door behind him. It is only a few moments before he bounds up the steps into their master suite, sliding up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist, unknowingly resting his hand where hers were just a minute ago and pressing his lips against the sensitive skin on the back of her neck.

“You’re bloody gorgeous, d’you know that?”

She turns in his arms, locking her hands around the back of his neck, feeling his hair under her thumbs as she smiles at him. “Yeah, I think you’ve told me once or twice.”

The smile spread across his face grows, and he presses a soft kiss against her nose, knowing better than to mess with her lipstick before she has a chance to ruin it other places. “Are you ready, love? We need to leave soon to make our reservations.”

“Reservations? Killian Jones, you really went above and beyond, didn’t you?”

“I have to do the best I can for the woman I love.”

Shaking her head at him, she pulls out of his arms, knowing full well (and from experience) that once he started saying things like that, it just gets harder and harder to leave the bedroom.

“Well then, let’s go so you can feed her.”

He had already pulled out all of the stops, more stops than she even knew there were, and that was before they even started getting ready for dinner. It all started with breakfast in bed, pancakes and bacon and hot chocolate, and then he had shown up at the police station for lunch, toting more hot chocolate and and a grilled cheese, not to mention the dozen of perfect red roses—which he brought a vase for, knowing there was nothing at the station for them already. When she got home, there was another dozen roses on the counter, these ones white, and a small, handwritten note making sure she knew to be ready to go at 6 for their dinner—and now they were going somewhere that needed reservations? Emma was fairly sure— _positive_ , actually, that no one had ever treated her as well as Killian had already today, not to mention the innumerable marvelous things he’s done for her on a daily basis.

And that’s why, more than anything else, she is excited to tell him her news, because if she was in another situation like she was when she found out she was having Henry, she’s not sure that she would be able to do it all again.

The restaurant is about a half an hour outside Storybrooke, a small, dimly-lit Italian restaurant with actual, real-life candles lit at each table, and the maitre’d leads them to a table by the window, looking out over the water.

Emma orders a water, which Killian raises an eyebrow at, but when the waiter walks away, she says, “Look at the prices on this menu, Killian. I don’t need a fifteen dollar drink.”

“Don’t worry about the prices, love. Just get whatever you want.”

They order appetizers, some fried seafood and this fresh mozzarella platter that comes highly recommended by their waitress, but Emma can’t wait any longer—she is practically buzzing with the excitement that has welled up inside her since she learned the news earlier that week, and especially since she decided to tell him here, tonight.

“Killian,” she says, reaching her hand across the table to take his, and when he turns her eyes up at her, staring at her through his eyelashes, she realizes that there must have been something in her voice that worries him, especially once he asks,

“What’s the matter, love?”

Smiling, she shakes her head. “No, no, nothing’s the matter. Actually, everything is perfect, but everything with you always is. I just—I have something I want to tell you.”

The worry melts off his face, replaced with a smile that she can  _swear_ lets off more light than the candle sitting between them. “What is it?”

Suddenly, she is so excited that she can’t seem to get her words out in the right order: “You know that—that  _thing_ that we talked about at the end of the summer, the, uh, the  _thing_ that we wanted to do, and that I said I might need to go to the—go back to the doctor for, before we were sure of anything?”

He raises his eyebrow, but the smile on his face continues to spread, though possibly just at her sudden inability to speak. “Yes, I think I know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, it—it happened, Killian, and we don’t have to go to see any doctors or anything because it  _happened_ and I’m—I’m pregnant.” She says the words out loud for the first time (though she  _has_ only been sure for three days), and then she says them again. “I’m pregnant, Killian. We’re—we’re having a  _baby._ ”

She watches his Adam’s apple bob up and down, his eyes unfaltering from her face, the biggest and most brilliant smile that she has ever seen spread across his face, and the fact that he does not say anything worries her for a moment, until he pulls his hand away from hers to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

“You’re pregnant,” he says finally, then takes a deep breath, the candlelight between them flickering in his eyes. “ _Bloody hell_ , we’re going to have a baby.” His voice is breathy, and she can tell that she is trying to hold himself together.

Until he suddenly jumps up, feeling the pockets of his jacket, then his pants, frantically, before turning her eyes back to her, quickly saying, “I’ll be right back,” before walking right past her and through the restaurant.

Intrigued, she watches him as he approaches the host’s station by the door, his hand against the man’s shoulder, and he leans in to say something into his ear. After a moment, they both turn to her, sitting at the table, and she raises her hand in a confused wave. The maitre’d nods, then leads Killian through the restaurant and back through a set of double doors.

Losing her point of concentration, she turns back towards the table, one hand on her stomach, and the other brings her glass of water to her lips. “You better not be causing trouble already,” she says out loud to the human growing in her stomach.

Killian is only gone for a few more seconds, quickly appearing back beside their table before she can take another drink of water, and the way his hair is sitting mussed on his head tells her that wherever he went, he was pulling at it with his hand.

“Emma,” he breathes, standing beside her, and she turns in the chair to face him. “I was going to wait until later to do this, and that’s why I gave it to the waitress to bring out with the dessert, but now seems as perfect a time as any. We’re—we already have our own little family, but now we’re adding another one, and I—I was obviously already going to ask you this before you told me you’re pregnant, but now it just seems all the more important to really become a family.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket, revealing a perfect, sparkling diamond ring, then kneels on the floor beside her chair. “Emma Swan, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

She reaches out, pressing the fingers of her right hand against his cheek while giving him her left, and he slides the ring on her finger. “You’re serious about this, Killian? You’re sure you want to marry me?”

“You’re carrying my child, love. There is nothing that I want to do more.”

She feels her lip quivering, threatening to burst out from where it is tucked under her teeth. “Ghosts and all?” she asks, her voice no more than a whisper.

“Ghosts and all, Emma Swan. I told you, I’m in this for the long haul.”


End file.
